Heiress in Red Silk, Hunter, Madeline [good beach reads TXT] 📗

from it. Forestier invented a gauge for pressure, so it makes sense they would go together.”

It sounded right to her, but she looked back blankly. “I am not an inventor or a maker, Mr. Lovelace. I really don’t know if you are right or not.”

“Of course not. But I think you know that your husband might do better to turn his mind to more inventions than to waste his time trying to run a factory like this. I’m only asking if you might encourage him to hear me out, that’s all. I think together we can do great things.”

She liked this man. For one thing, he had not stolen Forestier’s idea any more than Kevin had. He paid those licenses and he hired artists. Some of his works were not far from London. He was a hardworking man with big ideas who knew what he could do and what he couldn’t.

“Mr. Lovelace, if you spoke with Mr. Forestier, perhaps he told you that I am half owner of Mr. Radnor’s business.”

He appeared startled, then perplexed. Finally, he grinned. “You are the lady in red silk? Miss Jameson? Well, that explains a lot. When I saw you, I thought it unfair that he had two beautiful women in his life. If you will pardon my saying so.”

“We married soon after returning from France.”

He laughed. “Well, now, I might have said things differently if I knew you owned half of it.”

“I think you said everything just fine.” She thought fast. Kevin would be angry if she encouraged this man in any way. Furious. And yet . . .

“Mr. Lovelace, you know my partner is not inclined to take this path. However, I am willing to hear what you propose.”

* * *

Kevin moved the large sheet of paper full of sketches to one side of the table. He took a clean sheet and began copying the only drawing he had made that satisfied him thus far.

It had been a long time since he had embarked on a new project, but this idea would not leave his head. He might as well see where it led. Right now it presented more problems than solutions. He didn’t mind that. It wouldn’t be interesting otherwise.

A soft cough interrupted his thoughts. He looked behind him to see Brigsby, staring down at the floor. “Would you like me to pick those up, sir?”

Kevin looked down at the dozen or so papers strewn over the carpet. “That isn’t necessary.”

Brigsby toed at the closest paper. “They might be trampled here. Ruined. I’ll stack them on the writing table.” He bent and began collecting the papers.

Kevin suffered it and waited for the papers to be stacked neatly on the writing table. “Did you come in here to see if I needed tidying, or was there something else?”

“You mentioned that Mrs. Radnor will be visiting this afternoon. I could make a small cake if you like. It would be nothing elaborate.”

“Brigsby, Mrs. Radnor does not visit here. It is hers as well as mine. One does not visit one’s own apartment.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Good.” Kevin turned back to his drawing. After a minute, he realized Brigsby was still there. He turned again. “What else?”

“The cake, sir. Will you be wanting it?”

“Fine. Excellent. A cake. Very good. Now go away.” He again turned to the drawing while Brigsby passed on his way to the door. “Small,” Kevin called after him. “Very small.”

Satisfied that he had both ensured Brigsby would be busy, and also averting the chance that the small cake would be ten inches wide and twenty high, Kevin again returned to his work.

It absorbed him enough that Brigsby’s reappearance became one more intrusion. “I thought you were making a cake.”

“It is done, sir.” He eyed the chairs, then moved two an inch or so each. “I’ll bring it with coffee soon. Mrs. Radnor is on her way up.”

Kevin checked his pocket watch. Hours had flown by.

Brigsby hurried out and returned escorting Rosamund like the visitor she was not. Although she did not come here much. Other than one arranged conversation when they had together examined the drawings and sample of Forestier’s gauge, she had not “visited” at all. Her note at one o’clock announcing she would arrive later had thus been of passing curiosity.

Now she looked around the sitting room. She strolled over to the windows and checked the prospect as if she had not seen it before. She sidled near his writing table and angled her head to examine the top drawing. She turned her head and peered in the direction of the big table where he had been working.

“What is this?” she asked, lifting one of the discarded drawings.

“It is just an idea I am toying with.”

“It looks like a house. What are these lines here, running up and down?”

“Pipes.”

She set it down. “I suppose if I spend time making hats in a workroom behind a shop, you can draw pipes here.”

Brigsby arrived again, bearing a tray with coffee and cups and the cake. Kevin would not describe it as small, but it could have been worse.

Rosamund appeared delighted, however. They sat, and Brigsby served, then left.

“This is delicious,” Rosamund said. “How nice of him to think to make it.”

“The man is underfoot. Irritating. Distracting. Chase was very sly in giving me both space and manservant. They went together, of course. Now I know why.”

“He can’t be too distracting, considering that stack of paper over there.”

“Perhaps not. I’m accustomed to being alone, though. I’m not used to having someone fussing around behind me.”

Rosamund gave him an amused smile, then bit into her cake. “We were very naughty last night. I couldn’t imagine what that bowl of custard was doing there when I retired. I should have known at once that you had some wicked plan.”

Her mention of it brought memories that eliminated lingering thoughts about those pipes. “I had a taste for some custard, is all.”

“Most people use spoons.”

He crooked his arm around her neck and eased her over for a